When Mark walks into the living room after eleven o’clock that night, I am curled up in an armchair, in the dark, a half-empty glass on the side table.

He stands in front of me. ‘Listen, I’m sorry I got so mad. It’s bloody horrendous, and you should’ve told me. I’m not excusing you, I can’t. I know you’ve spent your life covering for Charlie, but –’

‘You bastard.’ I spit the word at him.

He jerks his head back in surprise.

While he’s been wherever he’s been, I’ve been trapped with my rage in this house, going through each domestic task as if I were a robot, thinking about Mark and Lou, growing angrier, more hurt, more brittle. I’ve crafted a speech about betrayal and hypocrisy and the wounds he’s inflicted. I’d forgotten that he would be thinking about the car crash. That conversation feels a lifetime ago.

‘Uh.’ He takes a step backwards. ‘Don’t know what that’s for but I can see you’re in no state to have a rational discussion so I’m going to bed.’

‘You think you’re going to sleep here? Lie in our bed like nothing happened?’ I stand up and grab his arm, as much for balance as to stop him leaving the room. ‘How could you?’

‘How could I? You’re the one who killed a woman then lied to me.’

We face one another in the dark. I let go of his arm. I am barefoot and small, and feel like a child in the presence of a powerful adult. ‘Lou,’ I say quietly. Even in this dim light I see the change in his expression as he becomes aware of what I’m saying.

‘Abby,’ he whispers.

‘You had an affair.’ I feel myself sway.

‘It wasn’t like that.’

‘You’re married, she’s married. That’s an affair.’

He considers for a moment, then regains his confidence. ‘Well, what did you expect? You turn into a plank of wood whenever I touch you. Don’t seem interested in me at all.’ He waits. ‘Is that because of the car crash, the stress?’ he says. ‘Or – I don’t know. How much rejection did you think I could take, Abby?’

I stand still, separate from the world and all that’s in it. I want to ask when and where and for exactly how long. And does he love her. And was she the first.

‘Okay, well, I’ll go then.’ His face makes it clear he believes himself to be the victim in this scenario, cast out of his home, misunderstood by his mad harpy of a wife.

There is no law of motion that allows for things to stay the same, silent and motionless, at peace. I would like that, for a while at least. To wake to stasis, a permanent sunrise, have the raindrops hugged in white clouds – for life to stay utterly immobile until I can make sense of it.

As if on cue, the still night is shattered by what I first think is a volley of gunshots and backfiring cars. I look over Mark’s shoulder and see the black sky spot with puffs of sparkling light, then quick rockets shooting up, zigzagging, bursting open, white at first and then pink, green. The explosions grow in number and speed until the sky is hysterical with them and it suddenly seems so funny that someone is flinging all this nonsense up into the air, faster and faster, until it just stops. And when the noise abates and the sky is decorated only with pale grey squiggles of smoke, I realise I’m laughing. And that Mark has left.